Perched
on a flat cushion, legs dangling comfortably numb after sustained hours of
reading in the same position, I winced slightly. Tore myself away from the
part-comical part-thoughtful novel that I was reading and looked beyond the
window that framed all the light this room received.
Late
March afternoon. It was all that the imminent summer had gently warned us
about. Mango trees pregnant with flowers that would soon become firm, green
young fruits. The last of the spring flowers dotting the hedges, walls, fences
and the narrows streets of the locality. Monkeys calmly sitting far apart from
one another and concentrating on whatever they were messing with at the moment-
a neighbour's washing line, a tetra pack of juice half-consumed, another
monkey's dirty head. Some children in the street called out to one another and
merrily scampered about unaware of the trees, the flowers, the silent monkeys
and the occasionally glancing me.
I turned
towards the partly shut book. Counted the number of pages I had devoured in
this one sitting. 135. Not great, but not bad at all. I had had a huge reading
block in the previous year. Picked three promising books, got through 40 odd
pages and then got distracted with other things- music, travel, short-reads,
magazine pieces, more music, more travel- and never managed to complete any of
them. So even this one sitting was cumulatively greater than my attempt last
year. I had already completed one 300-page book in February, it was mostly
about music and a little bit about travel. Somehow the themes of my life, at
the moment, fit in every scenario. But I digress…
It was
the peace and quiet of an afternoon that had led me on to this train of
thought. Even on abnormally silent days in the office, somebody is hammering
outside, a car whizzes by every two minutes, the koel's soft call completely
drowned by the rhythmic typing in the office and the invasive phone calls. Such
silent days are far and few in between. Weekends suffocate under chores to be
done, friends to be met and non-negotiable calls to the near and dear. When
silence arrives, it is accompanied by exhaustion, not creativity.
I shut
the book firmly now. Only 40 pages left, I am sure I will complete it tomorrow.
It is easier to breathe knowing that the reading habit is not all lost. I look
out again, make myself even more at ease and let the mind wander. I am at A's
place. She is cooking in the kitchen. Intermittent sounds, ones that I can
recognise from my own kitchen, promise more comfort. The day is not too hot. I
was sitting shrouded in a thin shawl in the morning, and just listening to the
unbelievable quiet of the small town. The main roads were chaotic and a
hell-way of honking trucks and buses, cars and scooters. But beyond that, huge
eucalyptus, mango, peepal, ashoka and other avenue trees cloaked the residential areas
in absolute tranquility. 'It is still noisy and one can't sleep so easy', A
protested.
In a
small town, it is easy to get from one to place to the next within a limit of
ten minutes. There seemed to be nobody hurrying, hustling. Or maybe that it was
an extended weekend and everybody had willingly resigned to have their peaceful
four days. Yet, on the previous evening, a rare sense of freedom and youthful
energy burst within me and I sprinted. I sprinted down the wide, dimly lit,
completely empty and tree-lined avenues. I hopped, paused, breathed and
stopped. I grinned back at A, who too shot down the road right after me and at
P who leisurely strolled behind. Young as only the young are.
I
remembered the stroll down the town's roads two nights ago. Ethereal fragrances
drifted in the air, benign bottle-brush trees showered their blessings and the
bright moon nudged our young spirits. And this deep sense
of finding solace and unexpected counsel in the buzz of the crickets and
unsolicited company of a passing mongrel, too.
Such settings are only in a few pockets of the
city, untouched by pollution and uninhabited by humans. I must find more time
for the countryside, I thought to myself. Silence, undisturbed sleep, more
peace and a leisurely mulling of all the important things in life over a cup of
tea, by the sunshine-streaming window billed for a invigorating retreat. The testimony of a place where one can hear
the clock tick and the wind whistle. Where Time stops and indulges the thinking mind. A announces that lunch is ready, and I
more than willingly substitute the book on my lap for a plate of hot puris, sabji and
cold raita.
